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Happy Jon Lester day, everybody! Sorry, just practicing. That’s right! The most Lesterish of all the lefties is primed to attack opening day.You’re watching, right? Because apparently Lester’s father won’t be. And that’s a shame, because Lester’s a special, special guy, and I’m sure he’s sorry about Soxplosion, 2011. I’m sure he’s sorry and that I’ll be getting my apology letter any day now.

I’m expecting one from you too, DOUBRONT. I hate to judge games I didn’t physically watch… but REALLY? REALLY, FELIX?

And I didn’t forget about YOU, Melancon. I’m just… I can’t… I WILL GET TO YOU LATER. What really frightens me about you, Melancon? Is that Bobby V doesn’t seem to think you are horrible.

“Melancon outing? I thought he backed up the bases pretty well. He had that down,” said Valentine when asked about the reliever…

It absolutely fills me with a cold, hollow, trapped-in-a-well kind of fear when the managers think Lackey-esque performances back up bases “pretty well.” We saw it with Francona and Lackey. We saw it with Francona and Timlin. Need I remind anyone of a man named Lugo? Nearsightedness is a part of the aging process, Bobby V. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just recognize it now and get some cool specs by April, k? They make prescription sunglasses and you could probably even get a fake nose and mustache for them.

Bobby V says he’s going to “sit down” and have a serious conversation about pitching. Um. Okay. Sure. I mean, I would have had that sit down, serious conversation about pitching while forming my rotation. You know. DURING THE OFFSEASON. But sure, with what, TWO FRICKING WEEKS to go before Opening Day? Sure. Let’s all just SIT DOWN now. You sure you don’t want to wait two weeks? Maybe discuss it over CHICKEN?

I’m okay. I’m okay. Totally over September. TOTALLY OVER IT.

I have said it before. I shall say it again. Right. Now. Aceves for rotation. Do it, Bobby V. DO IT. It’s not like we can…

Wait… what… wh… oh my God you guys… Could it… is it… DON’T TOY WITH ME, BOBBY. I have been hurt before. What’s that? Shining in the distance?

This is exactly like that early 90s cult classic, “the X-Files,” available now on Netflix.

Allow me to explain.

See, for those of you who were like, seven when this came out with mean parents who didn’t let you watch the X-Files because of “graphic content” and nightmares and stuff (and you don’t have Netflix. Because, if you have Netflix, I’m sure you’re already a “believer”), the X-files is about these two FBI agents. There’s a skeptic. Her name is Scully. She’s not relevant to my rambly metaphor. But I like her hair. And then there’s Mulder. See, Mulder, really WANTS TO BELIEVE in things like extraterrestrials and scifi stuff and an afterlife, right, because it gives his life’s mission purpose. It means there’s something out there that means something, see? Oh, and that his sister isn’t dead. But you can get a full explanation on that sideplot from wikipedia.

“I want to believe that the dead are not lost to us…”

Ahem.

Dice-K, I WANT TO BELIEVE in you, because that gives the 80 katrillion dollars and 17 gallons of tears I have shed for you a purpose. But I need evidence.

Much in the same way that, in season 2 of X-Files, Mulder needs EVIDENCE to continue his quest.

Can you tell what I was doing before I made Raleigh friends?

So see, Dice-K. You’re the aliens. We want to believe in you. But you’ve got to stop abducting people and just have a nationally televised conversation. And. You know. Pitch.

What do you think, Soxies? Do you believe in Dice-K? Or do you think we’re alone in the universe?

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In other news, the media is really sorry about all that chicken sh#$ (see what I did there?) they spread in September and they’re trying to apologize by over compensating Lavarnway style. I appreciate the attempt to keep my cries of “VARITEK! WHYYYYY” at a minimum. But, seriously, Boston Globe. You don’t have to pander to me. All I need is time.

Some encouraging words about Jose… I mean, we didn’t win. But, apparently, he caught a cool ball. So that’s nice.

Oh, and the media, so astute they are, have decided to tell us all that Bobby V is not Terry Francona. Thanks, Yahoo Sports. What would I do without you in my life? I get you mixed up too, media. Like, just the other day, I was like, Why, Hello, Anderson Cooper! What are YOU doing in the booth? And then I realized it was Jerry Remy. You make THAT much sense, Yahoo Sports.

In conclusion, today was a sucky Red Sox day. Except for the bit about Lesterness.

So, comment, nation. Comment away. Doubront, or not to Doubront? Dice-K, or not to Dice-K? Aliens, or no aliens? Scully or Mulder?

No one enjoyed the break more than I did. No one. I was theoretically off work today (four phone calls, five articles later). Which means pool time. Sunshine. And work.

But hey, work with sunshine and pool time isn’t as bad as … um… work without pool time and sunshine….

Speaking of working, Theo Epstein’s hitting the grind, prepping for draft day, Monday in the “war room.” That’s how this writer describes team Red Sox…

It makes sense. After the past week, the past HORRIBLE week, we should definitely firm up our WAR plans…

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Back on the ranch, surgery looks like it’s happening for Dice-K… which means decisions on the horizon: Timmy or Alfredo? While everyone will admit Alfredo has a fun name to say (and is a great pasta sauce), on my end, the decision is pretty clear.

‘‘Everybody dug in and [came] to play and get good at-bats all this week,’’ Guillen said.

See, Red Sox? CAME TO PLAY. That’s what you’re supposed to do. AND UMPIRES, COME TO UMP.

Add to the pressure of our leg shattering fall from the top of the ALE- Dice-K may really, really be done for. At least for 2011.

So Wakefield? Aceves? What to do? What to do? I am still with the – leave John Lackey on the DL and take a chance on Wakefield until he can’t hold the ball and the walker at the same time… but that’s just me.

And here’s an interesting article about the Yankee-Red Sox rivalry and how dead it is:

As 2007 Beckett and 2007 Dice-K did before him, vintage Wake heard our cries from through the time space continuum and broke into the time machine (I think they keep it in the Green Monster, but I’m not sure). He kidnapped new, spastic Wake and sent him to Bahia Honda (that’s in Florida) and came in from some old school knuckle action.

And the rest… well, that will be history.

How’s about the rock wars last night? When people hit my players, I get angry. Byrd: clearly an accident, people. No one purposely pegs someone in the face. Right, WOOD?

Why this is good for me: I can say, hi, Michael Bowden, and somewhere out there, he might actually know who I am. Of course, he doesn’t know me as Lauren, the dazzlingly beautiful blogger with a sparkling personality and genius wit, you know, like you guys know me.

He knows me as “that girl with the sign(s).”

See, when I lived in Charlotte… still no Red Sox. So I compensated with Knights (White Sox affil). See, for most of the year, I faked White Soxism. I even saw Peavy pitch. I wore the hat. I drank the beer. I meshed. I had to, see. I needed baseball.

But… once a year… when the PawSox were in town… to Knight horror, I ditched all my bandwagon gear for my Red Sox hat and got loud. Oh. And I got signs.

Remember that time Aaron Bates got a homer with the Red Sox? I did. So, when I saw his name in the PawSox lineup, I got a little delirious and that’s how it started. When you’re Fenway deprived as long I’ve been, you take what you can get, and you RUN with it.

Well, according to Bates, I’m the first person to make a sign. Well, multiple signs. You know, with things like, “Bates is great.” Really witty stuff like that.

He remembered me when they came back the next year.

And I, feeling it was my duty as a good little Knights turncoat, would make multiple signs. Tons of signs. And I would pass them out to people with Red Sox hats on.

Bowden, you got a sign. Remember that time you pointed and laughed at me? I do. It was one of those good-natured laughs. A good counter to the glare from all my Knights-faithful friends.

With John Lackey out of the lineup, nothing can stop us now. We’re mediocre+ and bigger news than Jorge Posada’s strained ego.

Yesterday was old school. The kind of game that has us throwing forks against drywall (I know I’m not the only one). The kind of game that has us out of leftover moving bubble wrap in thirty seconds. The kind of game that scares your puppy so badly she hides in the bathtub. Again.

It was that kind of game. The kind where just as you’ve ripped the leftover plastic pieces into shreds, just when you’re about to pull a Hulk on some cardboard boxes, they rally and stomp.

There was some major rally-stomp action, thanks to the best investment we’ve made since that Marlins trade years ago: Adrian Gonzalez.

See, Adrian Gonzalez isn’t just a hero. You know, like Jason Bay. The kind of hero that sweeps in, makes the save, and leaves you to clean up the glass and file the damages with your insurance company.

Adrian Gonzalez is a guardian. He’s in it for the long haul, not just to catch you that one time when you find yourself falling off the empire state building.

Biggest comeback since 2009 Yankee stadium, they tell me. But it feels like the biggest comeback of all time. It’s probably because of our subpar trend with mediocrity. Maybe it’s because we’re all just so damn sick and tired of coming to work and finding a broom waiting for us in our cubicle. There’s just something about this season that’s been taxing. It’s not losing. We’ve lost before. It’s this groaning, agonizing BARELY losing crap. This playing against ourselves and LOSING to ourselves crap. It’s JOHN LACKEY (who, saints be praised, is on the DL list and can’t bother us again… for… you know… at least a week).

We needed this.

We got this.

And we’re over .500, baby.

But Dice-K, dear, this does NOT mean we’re okay. You need to work on your issues and your fear of going over that .500 hurdle. I get it. Because, see, once we’re mediocre+, there’s no going back to Lackey-esque obscurity. It’s up, up, up, and that’s a lot of pressure.

But Dice-K, dear, if you do not suck it up and start channeling old you, we are going to have a problem.

Okay. Now go celebrate with your little friends.

See, this feels good, but as I have said (at least twice), the ORIOLES are the WORST team in the ALE. They just are. So, enjoy the feeling. A victory is a victory, but just keep in mind that it’s a victory against the WORST team.